Murder Club - Mark Pearson [1]
But he wasn’t smiling. Delaney wasn’t getting into the spirit of the season, he was just getting into the spirit. Irish whiskey to be precise and drinking it without strict adherence to the guidelines about the number of units of alcohol it was safe to consume. Jack Delaney had already consumed more than a week’s worth of them and tossed back another large Jameson’s as he scowled at the woman holding a collecting box under his nose.
‘Will you take a drink instead?’ he said to the woman, who shook her head outraged.
‘I don’t drink alcohol,’ she said. ‘The Salvation Army is a temperate organisation. “It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink, lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgement of any of the afflicted. Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.” Proverbs 31, 4 to 6!’
Delaney nodded at her and took a glug of his pint of Guinness. ‘Psalm 104: 14–15 “He makes grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate – bringing forth food from the earth: wine that gladdens the heart of man, oil to make his face shine, and bread that sustains his heart.”’
‘You have studied the good book?’ she asked surprised.
‘I have studied man,’ he replied. ‘And was he not made in God’s image?’
‘So the Bible tells us.’
‘Then I have no desire to meet the maker of such a despicable race. Troll your jolly bowl around somewhere else, lady!’
The woman’s face flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment Delaney couldn’t tell. He didn’t care either way. ‘Get us another whiskey here,’ he shouted across at the barmaid, a young woman called Aysha, who winked and stuck her thumb up before fetching his drink.
‘Oi, I was next.’
Delaney turned round to the man standing beside him. In his late twenties with a goatee beard, jeans and a loose, blue linen shirt. Probably working at the BBC, Delaney surmised, the place was filled with them nowadays. Creeping about from their numerous buildings around Shepherd’s Bush and further up the road at White City and Television Centre. Turning a proper old boozer like The Hat into some kind of trendy, yuppie, yahoo nightmare. It had even started calling itself a gastropub, for Christ’s sake. Delaney resisted the urge to smash his fist into the outraged prig’s face. ‘Fuck you!’ he said instead and the man seeing the latent violence in Delaney’s eyes backed away. Delaney wasn’t a particularly big man, but he was six foot tall with broad enough shoulders, dark, curly Irish hair. And eyes that would have been blue in the spring sunshine of a May morning, had he been well rested and refrained from strong liquor. As it was, the blue was tinged with red, and his eyes were not peaceful, if they were, indeed, the windows to the soul the BBC script editor was gazing into a very dark place. Dark and dangerous. He held his hands up and backed away. As best as he could, that is, with his heehawing colleagues from Media Central clustered around him like so many braying donkeys.
‘Cheers, darling,’ he said as he took the drink from Aysha, an extremely pretty, young woman, with come-to-bed eyes and a full, womanly figure. ‘Jeez,’ he said, ‘if I was ten years younger, I’d be having you in my bed faster than you can say “Christ on a bicycle”.’
The Salvation Army officer took a deep intake of breath and made an involuntary sign of the cross on her chest.
‘Come back tomorrow when you are sober enough to get it